White Rose
by bookwormtiff
Summary: The white rose... was the centre of her existence. Arya's mental instability when imprisoned within Gil'ead... Hallucinations within a hallucination.
1. Chapter 1

**-White Rose-**

**Disclaimer: Everything in here isn't mine! It all belongs to Christopher Paolini. :) **

**Warning: Graphic, lots of angst, blood, and gore. **

The slamming of a cell door echoed throughout the corridor, and the heavy key screeched in the lock as it was turned, subjecting the world, once more, to complete and utter darkness.

The tramping of heavy boots quickly faded away into oblivion, and soon even the slight vibrations dissipated, leaving the occupant of the room in blessed silence.

Arya Dröttningu lay motionless on the cold stone floor, curled up as if protecting herself from danger. Only a faint whisper of breath indicated that she was still alive, and involuntary shivers occasionally racked her slender body. Her skin, once so fair, was now mottled with a varied kaleidoscope of putrid colour, and her back, arms and legs were striped with scars, most of which were raw and bleeding. A shapeless piece of cloth allegedly christened a "dress" did almost nothing to hide the appalling state of her injuries.

Despite her battered exterior, Arya was still capable of coherent thought. But as the long day wore on into night, she slipped into a stupor of pain and despair, fogging her mind and leaving her in a delirious, trance-like state. Only a paper-thin wall separated her from madness as she floated in the void between reality and unconsciousness, and strange sounds, sights and smells drifted in and out of her mind.

Luring her into the clutches of insanity.

Yet Arya did not give up her hold on reason. She hung on because the whole of Alagaësia depended upon her to hide their secrets, and if she lost her mind because of simple lack of determination, it would be exactly what Durza would have wanted.

She could not bear the thought of that foul Shade taking further pleasure in her pain. If she had the power to avoid it, she would, even if it meant her death.

But it was excruciatingly hard, and the temptation to just let go, and give up, pressed against her day after day, when even unconsciousness couldn't sate the pain. It tore deep into her very soul, making her forget who she was, what she was doing, ripping apart her very identity. There were times when the floor was splattered with blood, when agonized screams of unbearable torment echoed through the dungeons, when her own fingernails gouged wounds in her skin. Times when she almost gave up.

Almost.

_I must not fail. _

She did not even notice when the tortured shriek of the key announced the arrival of another guard, who quietly set down a tray before turning and walking away. The door slammed shut behind him.

…

It was nearly midnight when Arya first stirred. The scarred, white moon was high in the heavens amongst cloudless skies, its unwavering light illuminating the sprawling city of Gil'ead. Somehow the moonlight even managed to enter Arya's cell, tracing a path through the air and merging into a single, glowing beam.

Arya studied it through half-closed eyes, her mind still a foggy blur, and marvelled at the way it almost seemed to _dance_ around the cell, reflecting off the hard stone walls in mirror-bright glitters, and revealing beauty that had once been hidden. The extra light also revealed a shimmering, white corona which had _definitely_ not been there before.

The mystery gnawed at Arya until she grew tremendously frustrated, seething with insatiable curiosity. But at last she gave up.

Slowly, laboriously, she turned her head. And the air hitched in her throat.

The moonlight glimmered and twisted around a polished silver tray, laden with stale bread, shrivelled grapes, and a flask of cold watery soup. That in itself wasn't unusual, as Arya had been consuming the likes of it for weeks. What _was_ strange was the thing lying beside it.

A pure white rose.

…

_The sun was blazing in all its brilliance up in the skies above, strong enough to penetrate the thick canopy of leaves around and above me. It limned my face, gilded my hair, and suffused me with heady warmth. _

_I opened my eyes. _

_The air was coloured a rich honey gold, dappled with ever-shifting shadows where the leaves blocked the sunlight. Every leaf was individual; coloured with varying tones of brown, lime and tender forest green, and riddled with myriads of veins. Clustered together, the effect was hypnotising; they rippled and swayed with a pattern no human, or elf, could distinguish. _

_The sweet trills of songbirds, the rustle of wind, quiet footfalls; those were the only things which broke the silence, yet they seemed to add to the all-pervading calm drenching the forest. _

_Somewhere amongst the trees, a voice started a melody, joined by another, and another, until the whole forest was ringing with the sound. Crystal clear, lilting, and extraordinarily beautiful, their voices melded together in the music of poetry, words lingering in the air long after they were sung. _

_And from my high vantage point, I could see the entire city, the home of the elves. It sprawled across much of Du Weldenvarden, but as it was made to compliment the trees and the plants, it was hard to make out. A banister there, a window here, the buildings grown and nurtured with the plants. It was truly the most graceful city in the land. _

_And as the elves ran forward to welcome me, I forgot everything that had happened, all the tortures I had endured, all the weeks of suffering and pain. I was simply happy to be there, happy to be part of their gatherings, happy to be home at last. _

_Everything was strangely hazy and indistinct, but what did I care? I was back home in Ellesmera, and safe. _

And then, even that illusion was torn away from me.

…

**Author's Note: Well, for those who don't already understand, the general layout is meant to be;**

**Arya's time imprisoned in Gi'lead, then a hallucination/memory, then it repeats again, and again… It's like a cycle. **

**As I said, stories within a story. **

**If you've read Brisingr, especially the chapter "Shadows of the Past", you'll know what this is about. Some of the hallucinations are mentioned in there, but some will be completely invented. **

**Please tell me what you think. **

**I'm going to update soon (hopefully), but I have a lot of stuff on at the moment, as well. **

**Cya!**

**Bookwormtiff**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: It's not mine! :)**

**Mwahahahaha…. Updated! Whoopee! **

The moon slowly sank beneath the horizon, and the flaming sun rose soon after, sending a riot of bright colours flashing across the sky. The bustling of an unseen crowd reached Arya's cell, but she simply lay there, as she had for the last few hours, entranced by the simple flower that was in front of her.

_A flower is the ultimate symbol of friendship, rebirth, and love…_

And as Arya gazed at the rose, she suddenly experienced a strange kind of release and exhilaration, despite her deep exhaustion and pain. Whatever happened, as long as she had this, she would have something to hope for, something to focus on, and would thus be near immune to Durza's influence.

She would be free in her soul.

"Thank you", she whispered…and involuntarily flinched at the sound of her own voice.

It was hoarse and cracked, testimony to the weeks of screaming till her throat was raw and bleeding, and it was also tinged with a mixture of fearful apprehension, wearying despair, and deep, black exhaustion. The old Arya in Ellesmera would never have been in that condition.

_How much have I changed since I was captured? _

She pushed the thought out of her mind for now, and turned her attention to what had to be done. Cupping the rose in her hands as if it were the most breakable glass, she crawled slowly to the far corner of her cell, where a tiny bit of dirt peeked from between the slabs of stone. Scraping a hole in the soil, she gently eased the stem inside, so that it stood tall and proud with its petals facing the sun.

The last of her strength drained, Arya collapsed down beside it, and simply admired the beauty and radiance of what nature had wrought. She could feel a sudden flare of life rising in response to her care, and hoped with all her heart that it would grow strong, and grow fair.

The door swung open.

Two ranks of crimson-clad soldiers marched into the cell, surrounding Arya completely before she could react. Seizing her forearms, two thickset men dragged her forward, depositing her before a corpulent sergeant seated on the bed.

He surveyed her as she was pushed before him, sprawling onto the floor, and a merciless smile twisted his mouth into a distasteful leer. Holding up a small silver bottle, he wriggled it mockingly before her, and Arya recognised it, and the contents inside, with dread.

Skilna Bragh. The poison that insured a slow death if she drank it without a daily antidote, and one of the many things that kept her from escaping.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

Gesturing to his guards, the sergeant leant forward and gripped her chin with two pudgy fingers, while unseen hands brutally twisted her arms behind her back. Try as she might, Arya couldn't shake loose, and could only watch helplessly as the small silver bottle drew nearer.

He smiled, and viciously shoved the contents into her mouth.

Arya gasped as the burning liquid streamed down her throat, and doubled up in agony as the poison seared its way to her stomach. The cloying, sickly-sweet taste lingered at the base of her throat, and tears of pain streamed down her cheeks and onto the floor.

Already she could feel its effects, as the poison spread black tendrils around her body; tendrils which crept along her bloodstream, heading towards her heart. It dulled her thinking, slowed her breathing, made each step an insurmountable, impossible task.

The guards dragged her through the corridor, and down the stairs.

…

They had gone down one hundred stairs already, or was it a thousand? Arya's befuddled brain couldn't tell the difference, as they carried her down one flight after the next. Her initial panic had subsided as the poison took over, and she was content to just stare out of half-hooded eyes with a calm acceptance, regardless of where they were taking her.

Further and further down they went; the murky light fading to a muddy, gloomy green, and then into complete blackness, lit only by infrequent torches. The air was suffused with damp, making it hard to breathe, and the walls were slippery with encrusted lichen and mould. Even the floor was coated with a thick layer of slime, the soldiers' boots squelching as they walked.

Finally they arrived at their destination, an ordinary, unadorned wooden gateway. It loomed high above them, a gaping hole in the wall, and an inexplicable tide of foreboding and dread rose in her throat.

But Arya could do nothing.

She was pushed roughly inside the room beyond, and the door was clamped shut behind her, sealing her in the darkness of night.

…

A second, two seconds, and nothing was to be seen, or heard, except Arya's ragged breathing. Then, without a sound, the torches flared into life, casting a bloody light around the room, and illuminating the single person that stood there.

Durza.

His tangled maroon hair trailed past his shoulders, and his sharp, pale face shone in the dim glow of the torches. A naked sword shimmered ominously in his hand, and the long, thin scratch gleamed in the firelight, a rivulet of molten lava. Tall and dangerous, he stepped nearer and nearer to a stricken Arya, until they were close to the point of intimacy. Lifting a single, bone-white finger, he stroked her lightly on the cheek, like a lover might.

The only sound in the room was her frantic breathing, loud & fast, rasping with fear and trepidation. No one moved.

Then he spoke, and his voice was sweet, soft, soothing.

"Have you anything for me, my dear?"

Silence.

Emerald met blood red with a blatant show of defiance.

His face hardened, and the paper-thin, trembling façade of calm was utterly swept away, replaced by impatience, rage, and a terrible, merciless cruelty.

"_Tell me_!" he roared, and Arya flew backwards with the force of his blow.

"Tell me!" he commanded, striding over to where she lay, blood trickling down her chin.

And finally the whisper, the calm before the storm.

"_Tell me_."

A frenzied, terrifying scream tore through the hallway.

…

_Tialdarí Hall…_

_The place I loved above all else, my refuge whenever I was afraid, or miserable, or furious. It was here I found myself now, wondering the corridors from one room to the next, and examining the gems of nature our race had amassed. I retraced familiar paths, feeling the damp soil under my bare feet, caressing the leaves of countless plants, and gazing at the flowers which looked too delicate to touch. _

_One thing itched at the edge of my consciousness, and it was this; there was nobody around. _

_Nobody but me. _

_I didn't let this worry me unduly; everyone was most likely at a function I was not required to attend. Nevertheless, the strange silence began to rub on my nerves until I was restless and tense. _

_Where was the music of pipes, the whisper of pages, the soft murmur of conversation? More importantly, where were the songs of birds, the rustle of wildlife, the swish of leaves in the breeze? _

_This just wasn't natural! _

_Laden with thoughts, I let my instincts drive me forward, as I withdrew and contemplated in a secluded section of my mind. I only stopped when my feet did, and what I saw struck me dumb. _

_Faolin's Tree. _

_No, it was pure coincidence. It had to be. _

_Smiling at myself, I wandered around the pond, fingers skimming the very tips of the rushes, before I was overwhelmed by a fit of nostalgia and memories. _

_Faolin had fallen in here, I remembered, when he was absorbed in his magic, and had come out half drowned and utterly drenched. He hadn't come back for years afterward. _

_But that was before he fell in love with this place… _

_Stopping before the great tree, I lovingly stroked the trunk, feeling the smoothness of the bark as well as the spark of life inside. My hand then moved of its own accord, landing on the lowest branch before coming to rest on the vine that twined around it. _

_The Black Morning Glory. _

_It bloomed all year round, and right now it proffered a number of plump medium-sized buds, almost bursting with vitality and eagerness. As my hand flitted over them, they opened in a trail of unfurling petals; dusky black streaked with sapphire, like the midnight sky captured in a single instant of time. Gently, I touched the rim of one gossamer flower, and gazed into its depths. _

_A single tear fell through the air, and splashed onto the ground. _

"Arya_." _

_A voice. One so familiar that it struck chords in my heart, and left me speechless. One that I never expected to hear now, or ever again. _

_I turned, and a startled cry flew from my lips. _

"Faolin!"

_There he was, standing right behind me, the amber helm on his head, and the white dagger by his side. His sleek black hair tumbled round his face, and his fierce, golden eyes softened at my gaze. Slanting dark brows slashed across his forehead, a stark contrast to the paleness of the skin. _

_There was no doubt that he was real, and not a created illusion. No one could have duplicated the spark of humour in his eyes, the mischievous hook to his mouth. No one could have copied the way he stood, the grace in which he moved. _

_And certainly no one could have copied the tenderness shining in his eyes. _

"_Arya",_ _he repeated, and his familiar, loving smile lit up his face with radiance. "Come here."_

_I stepped warily closer, until we were a mere foot apart, and looked into his eyes. He simply grinned at me. _

_I tried to hold back. I tried. _

_But I couldn't. _

_Uttering a strangled sob, I threw myself into his embrace, wrapping my arms around his shoulders even as he swung me into the air. Laughing, I clung onto him as he spun me into dizzying, exhilarating circles, and simply let all my troubles fall away. _

_I was myself again. _

_Putting me down, he went over to the great tree, and gently plucked a flower from the vine. Cupping it in his hands, he showed it to me, and then slowly intertwined it in my hair. _

"_For you."_

_Clasping my shoulders, he kissed me, a mere flicker of pressure that left me speechless. _

"_For you," he whispered. _

_Then he turned, and began to walk away from me. _

"_Faolin!" I cried. "Stay with me. Stay!" _

_My voice cracked with despair and pain, the pain of losing him again, the sadness and emptiness of life without him. I reached uselessly towards his departing figure, as if doing so could bring him back, but he was now far beyond my reach. _

_Faolin's voice drifted towards me, from an eternity away. _

"_Arya, I am dead, and cannot linger in the world of the living. But I love you, always have, and always will, forever… Never doubt that."_

"_I will see you again…"_

_His voice wavered, and then returned with an increasing urgency. _

"_Arya, there will be other loves, other people to come into your life. Don't reject them because of me. Don't ever be afraid."_

"_All I want…is for you…to be happy…"_

…

His last words faded into oblivion, and I woke up with tears in my eyes, as the full realization of what had just happened hit me, hard.

_Faolin was never coming back…_

A crumpled black flower lay unnoticed on the floor.

….

**A/N: Sorry for the abrupt ending. I'm running out of time! **

**Nooo….**

**Anyway, about the amber helm and white dagger Faolin was wearing, it comes from Eragon, in the prologue. I just assumed that the elf with swan-fletched arrows was Glenwing, since he liked birds, right? **

**Thanks for all the reviews and favs! I really appreciate them!**

**Thanks again! **

**It may be time for this to end… In the next chappie! **

**This may take a while….**

**Coming soon, third chappie! **

**Bookwormtiff**


	3. Chapter 3 Part 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine… **

**Almost finished! Only a bit to go! **

**I decided to chop the normal hallucinations bit off this time, because I know you're all mad at me for taking so long, and because it's going to be about at least 8-9 Word pages long, if I stick it on. **

**Hey, I'm not abandoning that missing hallucination bit! I've got plans… IT'S COMING AS NEXT UPDATE, KAY? **

**Arya might be a little strange in this chapter, though. More… I don't know. She goes… mental. Just remember, she's hallucinating! Tell me what you think, is it alright?**

_Pain…_

For Arya, it defined her world.

Pain rippled down her back, caught in her breathing, stabbed at her lungs, pooled in her mind. It tore into the recesses of her being with the savagery of an avenging spirit, defying her attempts to force it back. Like a ravening beast it howled at the world, sweeping Arya before it like a river in the storm.

She screamed.

And immediately regretted it.

Her throat split open in searing agony, making Arya choke as her wordless cry was unceremoniously cut off. Hot coppery liquid filled her mouth, effectively gagging her before spilling down her chin. Grimacing, she lifted a hand to wipe off the mess, and winced as still-raw wounds reopened all over her body. But ignoring their shrieking protests, Arya levered herself back into her original position, settling down to wait for the pain to abate.

The blood eventually slowed, drying in a large puddle that ringed her motionless form. The congealed blood itched at the side of her mouth, but she forced herself to keep still and ignore it. After all, the only result would be the reopening of more wounds, and they'd take much more time to heal.

All she could do was think.

Durza had been extremely _annoyed_ at her defiance, and whenever Durza got _annoyed_, things were bound to get bloody. And very, very painful, as Arya had soon learnt.

_His face loomed above hers… Splattered with blood… _Her blood_… _

_Screaming… She tried to run… Run far, far away…_

She tore her mind from such morbid thoughts, and cast her eyes around the room til she'd found what she was looking for.

The rose.

Its pearly, gleaming petals had unfurled partially in the time she'd been away, and it looked even healthier than before. The soil was a bit dry though, and the whole thing needed maintenance. But as of now, she just couldn't summon the strength.

The world became a nondescript blur, and a thick, swirling haze blanketed the stone all around her, until everything was completely obscured. All except the rose; the single flower at the centre of her vision, the ultimate focal point of her life.

It was everything to her now.

…

_Where am I?_

Deep shadows writhed and tore apart, an unnatural, churning mass of darkness where the moonlight could not touch.

_What am I doing?_

They converged upon her, shapeless, soulless entities of night, reaching with shadowy fingers to rend her apart.

_Help me!_

She cowered in the absolute centre of her cell, arms wrapped tightly round her head. Every now and then she would look up with blank, unseeing eyes, eyes that twitched spasmodically, searching out the shadows only she could sense.

Her long black hair was plastered all over her face, glued there by the tears that ran down her cheeks. Sobbing, she clawed desperately at the ground, seeking refuge from the haunts that tortured her. Yet she could not find it, as they were all part of her mind.

Her fingernails cracked and bled, her hands were scraped and bloodied, but she was oblivious to the pain, and paid it no attention. All she knew was her terrible need, her all consuming desire to escape, be free. Of her cell, her chains, her nightmares, her agony. Everything.

The dried blood left trails upon the floor.

A sudden wind engulfed her from the window, twining round her arms, ruffling her hair. But as Arya felt it, she shrank away, mouthing silent screams as the dark spirits rose to attack her once more.

And then…

_Salvation._

She crawled towards it, that object of her fascination, backlit by a beautiful, otherworldly glow. It fought away the shadows, fought away her demons, fought away her fears.

It could save her.

But the more she struggled, the further it drew away, and it seemed impossible to reach it, impossible to save herself. The light dimmed; it faded with distance, and an anguished cry tore from her lips, as she strained fruitlessly towards it with desperate, grasping fingers. But to no avail.

Then…

It… it was _dying?_

The petals were wilting; like flurries of snow, they dropped to the ground, lying in patterns against the cold stone floor. The stem drooped, and became a lifeless twig; its leaves curled and shrivelled into nothing.

Then the whole ensemble crumpled, and scattered on the floor.

A soft breeze stirred, and blew the fragments away.

It was gone. Gone, as it had never been, gone with the wind.

It was gone!

_Gone! _

Arya was still, save for a single tear that drifted down her face, and dripped onto the stone. Just a small, pure crystal globe, shimmering with the stars.

But inside, her heart was breaking.

It was shattering.

But…

A soft sigh of breath escaped from her lips, vibrating gently in the air.

Stray strands of hair shivered in the breeze, a corona of darkness.

Her eyes were closed.

Her face was peaceful. _Peaceful…?_

Then…

A scream. One scream.

One scream, filled with pain, and fear. The agony of living, the losses of the world. The stupidity of even _trying_ to live. It echoed across the heavens, fled over the plains, pierced through the walls, tore into minds. Full of unspeakable grief, it lamented for the loss of all reason, and lamented the revealing of the truth.

Nothing could change it. It was the truth.

Pain, evil, fear, desperation. Murder, torture, the dictation of tyrants. What was there to hope for? Whatever goodness that still lingered was blotted out, or would be, soon enough. There really was nothing to work for, nothing worth dying over.

The scream embodied… the loss of all hope.

It stopped.

And Arya collapsed.

_Drip… Drip…_

Blood? She was bleeding, from a scrape on her cheek. Touching it, she stiffened as a twinge of pain flared, then disappeared, all too suddenly.

The pain… helped her forget.

She clutched her arm with her fingernails, a vicious, sharp movement, in an attempt to further negate the memories. It didn't quite work, but still she hung on, digging deeper and deeper, relishing the pain as it tore through her body, and relishing the sight of the blood. The deep, dark blood, gleaming crimson in the moonlight.

Arya was both fascinated and repulsed by what she was doing, but she didn't quite care. All she wanted was a reprieve from her emotions, and this was helping her find it.

Smiling slightly, she dragged her nails across, and watched as beads of blood gathered around the wound. One slid down her arm, and dripped into the hollow, where the rose used to be.

Before it had died. Before it had left her in this cruel, merciless world.

Had it?

What… what was happening?

It was… growing back?

She forgot everything in that instant; the blood, the pain, her self disgust, the hopelessness. Every fibre of her being was centred on the shoot that was sprouting, the tiny, verdant green bud that was slowly unfurling, dwarfed by the great expanse of dirt and flagstones.

It was so fragile, so tiny, but it was definitely there.

Arya watched with bated breath as the little shoot swelled, and grew. The first leaf sprouted, then the next, and the whole plant was getting larger at a furious pace, almost as if by magic.

The first thorn… Then the first bud, slowly opening to reveal the petals of… the first, pure white rose.

It was even lovelier than its predecessor.

She leant avidly forward, gazing in wonder as the silken petals swelled to full glory, and then suddenly shrivelled, the full lifespan of the flower condensed into just a few short seconds.

There was a moment of stillness. A moment of silence…

The floor started to crack.

The flagstones were breaking; thin, hairline cracks running pell-mell across the surface, and fast widening under the strain. A huge section had already crumbled away, leaving a dark, gaping hole, a hole that rapidly swallowed everything, and anything, around it.

Arya staggered backwards as the cracks came too close for comfort, nipping the ground under her feet. _What was happening?_

The hole now covered a majority of the floor, and it was somehow, impossibly, regular. A perfect circle, with the tiny rosebush in the exact centre, a spot of green against the emptiness.

The hole stopped growing.

And then…

It erupted.

An enormously thick trunk exploded out of the ground, effortlessly filling the hole, and cracking a few more flagstones to make way for its bulk. The little rosebush was just the tip of the iceberg, it seemed. Faster and faster it grew, winding through the air, crashing through the roof, and still it continued. Arya threw herself flat on the ground, wincing as masonry and bits of rubble collided with her body. But the vine was undeterred, flying upwards through the night, until it seemed that it could touch the stars and the very roof of the sky.

Finally, it stopped growing. The trunk was smooth and luscious; deep green leaves adorned the branches, and tightly closed buds were clumped all over. Waiting for the right time to open.

Then blossoms unfurled along its length, delicate blooms of white tinted silver by the moon. They hung like ornaments on a great wooden pole; some clustered together, others simply alone in solitary beauty. The room was filled with their hauntingly sweet scent; distinctive, but subtle, it reminded Arya of days in the woods of Ellesmera, days spent dancing under the leaves.

Days of happiness…

The great vine beckoned to her, arousing her sense of adventure, and her longing for escape.

If she could just climb it, she would be free.

Freedom… How she wanted it! How she wanted to just be free, free of her hateful cell, free of her delusions and guilt! That longing grew within her, a persistent gnawing, an itch, a spark that refused to be quashed.

She gazed at the roses with newfound determination, glittering in her eyes and strengthening her stance. Climbing was an ingrained skill in all elves, so it should be relatively easy, but Arya was weak in her present state and that would cost her much.

She might not be able to make it.

But… If only she could get up! The weakness was spreading; it clouded her mind, immobilized her limbs, made her unable to move. She could only stare at the vine, raging inwardly at her weakness, her paralysis. But there was nothing she could do.

The rose was so beautiful, so perfect, so free…

She hated it. She hated her own body for betraying her, for keeping her here, a prisoner, while freedom beckoned, so close yet so far away. It was tangible, touchable, yet she couldn't lift a finger, couldn't reach out for her heart's desire. It tortured her, more than anything that had ever happened, anything she had ever suffered.

Her body was her prison. A prison of blood, and pain, and horror. She longed to be free like the rose…

What?

It was only a glance. One single glance.

But as Arya looked away, everything… disappeared.

There was no great vine. There was no huge hole, no self-inflicted wounds, no shadows, no blood. No evidence that anything at all had happened.

Daylight streamed through the window, illuminating the petals of that same white rose, which stood peacefully in its own mound of dirt.

Arya looked at it, and her mouth curled in disgust. It was nothing, after all, only a single, ordinary flower. Her life did not depend on it. It was futile to pile up all her hopes on such a thing.

She ripped it from the ground, and cast it in the corner.


	4. Chapter 3 Part 2

…

_It was dawn, the start of a new day. The skies were just beginning to lighten, as a pale, washed out glow conquered the dusky grip of night. All was silent, and still. Save a small flock of carrion crows, circling amidst the clouds. They knew what was coming. _

_A war. _

_A great but subtle tension hung suspended in the air, and a terrible weight seemed to smother the very atmosphere. Many would die today, still sleeping, still resting, still dreaming their last dreams. _

_But I was determined not to be one of them. _

_I sat concealed behind a prominent spur of rock, sharpening my blade and doing a last-minute weapons check. Mother would personally murder me if she knew, but I was taking some extra precautionary measures. Well, she had expressively forbidden me to take part in this war, but soon she would be too preoccupied to notice. And I was sick and tired of being coddled. _

_I sighed, and leaned back against the stone, absently picking up the helmet as I did so. It was shiny, hardened leather, black as night, twice as impenetrable, and should deflect most attacks aimed for my skull. I smiled grimly, and settled it carefully on my head, positioning it so that only my eyes and lips were visible. Perfect. No one would recognise me now. _

_My hair I tied back with a simple leather band, and the clothes I wore were plain and unadorned, inconspicuous in every way. Even my sword was disguised, dark cloth wrapped around the distinctive silver hilt. I grasped it, feeling the perfect balance and weight of the blade, spinning it in a blur of blue-tinged steel. Then I returned to my hiding place, and began spearing berries with my belt knife. _

_The juice was a dark, ominous red. _

_My people were just starting to stir, dark figures flitting from one tent to another. The same tension was in the air; the entire camp hummed with it, making it hard to breathe, or even think. _

_There were even rumours that a Dragon Rider was here, not Galbatorix, but someone of his league. One of the Forsworn, unnaturally strong, bearing powers that were augmented by her dark master. _

_Kialandi. _

_She of the flaming red hair, and ruthless purple eyes. She of the cunning mind, the quick blade, the cruel heart. She was said to have been a great beauty once, but no longer; the hatred inside had eaten away at her until she became a being entirely composed by twisted malice. And now she was cold, cold as the ice, but the fire in her eyes and hair betrayed the passion within. _

I shuddered. Was this what we were about to face?But we have a chance, I thought, steeling myself. We have our spellcasters, and though Galbatorix has force of numbers, his men are no match for our elves.Out of the corner of my eye I saw a silent battalion in the distance, going through a synchronized warm-up in preparation for the fight. Every elf went through the same routine, flowing in an ethereal dance that ended with a single, sudden slashing motion, one that cleaved the air apart. And in my mind's eye, I could see a mass of bodies, a mass of lives, each one ended with the same speed, grace and ease.

_Yes, his men would be no match for us. I turned away. _

_And then suddenly, everyone was still, silenced, turning as one entity to a single point near the front of the camp. My own mother, the Queen Islanzadi, was standing there, magnificent in her silvery armour and blood-red cloak. She raised a long, bare arm in an unspoken signal, and all the scattered clumps of elves drew together, picking up their weapons and merging into a long, thin line around the edge of the camp. I slipped in discreetly with them; blending in with the crowd until I was just one of the many black haired elves heading into position. And the silence pressed upon us. _

_The tension was unbearable. One long minute stretched into the next, and the elves nearest me shifted restlessly. The blood thrummed in my brain, until I was almost shaking with nervous energy and impatience. Why weren't we going, what were we doing, waiting for something to just happen-_

_A mournful, wavering note split the air, wild, powerful and unearthly._

_And the suppressed tide was unleashed. _

…

_The enemy sentries had, up to that point, been slacking on their duty. They were cold and tired, in need of rest, and the copious amounts of drink they had consumed wasn't helping their reflexes. Nothing could happen at the brink of dawn, they reasoned, and the black shapes silhouetted against the skies seemed just features of the landscape. _

_Or were they? One sentry shaded his eyes, and they came into clearer focus. He stumbled back, gasped, then screamed. "Attack! Attack!" _

_But his lone voice was drowned out by the battle cries of the elves, and the yells of his own men in the camp, trapped in their tents, struggling to ready their weapons before it was too late. There were scant seconds left before they came, and a mad rush ensued as the soldiers poured out of their tents, shaking the sleep from their eyes, scrambling to get into position before it was too late. _

…

_I saw all this as I rushed down the sea of pressed earth; saw the confusion and fear of the soldiers as they milled around like sheep, but then we rammed into them with the force of an earthquake, jolting me out of my reverie. With the two armies fully engaged, the terrible pandemonium of war started almost as once. I shuddered, knowing the agonised screams and sobs of dying men would haunt me all my days. _

_A huge, bearded man charged me, howling, a massive axe clutched in a meaty paw of a hand. His eyes were wild and crazed, but strangely unfocused; he was one of many caught unawares by our surprise attack at dawn. I easily sidestepped his lunge and, while he tottered, unbalanced, I took him out with a clean thrust in the belly. Then I ducked as a spear jabbed at the place where my neck had been. _

_I lost myself in the frenzy of action, my senses keen, my instincts honed and alert. The world around me had become sharp but impossibly fragile, the colours bright and intense, dazzlingly beautiful, but painful. My body reacted to any stimulus however tiny it was; a trickle of air would garner the same reaction as a hurricane, and yet it was this that, coupled with my wards, probably saved my life countless times. As it was, the many instances of narrowly missed death instilled a kind of reckless exhilaration in me, until I was plunging forward, sword-tip aflame, hacking and slashing at any who stood in my way. Many fell to my sword that day. _

_I gave myself over completely to my reflexes, not noticing when arrows dropped right in front of me, divested of energy, or when numerous soldiers rammed into my wards, trying fruitlessly to harm me. It was funny, I thought, as I languidly dispatched a few burly men. Where was Kialandi? Shouldn't she be here by now? Or are Dragon Riders fated to appear at the worst times possible?_

_At this moment, the whole battle was in stalemate, with neither side holding the advantage. Galbatorix's seemingly endless floods of men were well balanced by our force of elves, as we had greater endurance than the average human being, as well as faster reflexes and superior fighting skills. But one sudden, well-placed nudge could send the entire thing into disarray and confusion. This would definitely be the worst time for Kialandi to reveal herself. _

_But then…_

_It seemed as if Fate itself was trying to mock me. _

_She came. _

She came in a swirl of fire, drums booming to a crescendo, riding astride the great beast that was her dragon. Kialandi was flamboyant, it seemed. That part of her nature had not changed. Nor was her fiery red hair, fluttering in the wind, and the fanatic gleam in her glittering purple eyes. Her pale face was tight with exaltation and fury as she raised her sword… and took to the sky.

_Stillness reigned. On the battlefield all who were there turned their faces to the heavens, weapons forgotten. The sight of Kialandi, beautiful and terrible, seemed to shake everyone to the core. _

_Then the dragon roared, and the spell was abruptly broken. Kialandi thrust out a hand, and roiling lilac flames exploded from her elegantly tapered fingertips, incinerating scores of warriors and blackening a wide swathe of ground. The dragon added its own inferno to the fire, and together they wrought their devastation amidst the chaos of the battlefield. _

_I ground my teeth in frustration while tears rolled unchecked down my face, leaving tracks in the dirt. Humans or elves, friends or foes, Kialandi paid no heed, proceeding to kill them all without mercy. In a way, that was what made her so dangerous; in her madness, she didn't care at all. She lived only for wanton destruction; that much was obvious in the bared teeth and feral wildness of her expression. _

_Kialandi was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. _

_Our forces were beginning to reform into some semblance of organization, rallying behind Islanzadi's banner. I was quite relieved to see that Mother had survived the first barrage of attacks, but the straggling remnants of our once fine army did nothing to inspire my confidence. Our numbers were now sadly lacking, and it was little consolation to see that the enemy had also lost some troops. _

_The answer was clear. To win this, we had to take out the commander. The major player; the one turning the tables and making all the difference. And that meant Kialandi. _

_I could see that my mother knew it too. She was quickly mobilizing the magicians, and as I watched, a thick deluge of magical attacks splashed against the wards encompassing her and her dragon. Not that they had much of an effect. The magicians besieging her mind fared no better, battering against a seemingly invulnerable shield. One by one they collapsed, while Kialandi paid them no more attention than she would a buzzing fly. And she continued to kill. _

_Resolve set in. If no one could do anything to stop her, then I would! In my all-consuming recklessness and hot-headedness, I did not stop to think or even consider the foolishness of what I was about to do. _

_I drew my sword, and, stepping over a ring of charred and broken bodies, confronted her. _

_I was the only person standing in a fifty-metre radius. The ground was gently smoking from the ferocity and power of her fire, burning the soles of my boots. And in the centre of that devastation was the person I swore to kill. _

_Kialandi stared down at me, blatant derision and amusement etched on her face. Gleaming copper hair swirled about her form, and her eyes gleamed like amethyst, clearly relishing the thought of the killing she was about to carry out. Her dragon snorted and grumbled, and she patted it absently as if it were a dog. _

"_Pah! Little brat. Such a small flea for me to squash." She lifted a hand. I tightened my grip around the hilt, holding my sword up to guard. Waiting for the inevitable. _

_Suddenly, there was an enormous surge of energy, so great that the world momentarily stopped in its tracks. The sheer power of it made my head pound and my heart sprint. I fell to my knees. _

_And the sky split open. Torn asunder by the beating of wings as bright blue as the sky itself should have been, when not tainted by the auras of battle. A dragon! _

_My headache abruptly intensified, and I groaned, sinking to the ground and pressing fingers to my throbbing temples. The world grew dark. _

_The last thing I saw was the Rider of the mysterious dragon. I gazed in wonder through the fog of my mind. _

_It was a boy. _

_A boy, with brown hair and deep brown eyes. _

…

**A/N: Sorry, sorry for the hiatus! I'm going to finish this soon, as it's been bugging me for ages. **

**I took a lot of liberties with this; I completely made up the battle, and Kialandi's character (except for the name). If she turns out to be a guy… oh no. **

**Brom was the one who appeared and saved Arya originally, albeit in a less dramatic manner, but who knows why she scrambled it… or maybe she's having a premonition… **

**Whoa, I was a pretty angsty/gore-loving person back then. :/ Well, it's been more than a year! **

**Hope you like this! Epilogue coming soon! **


	5. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: Inheritance Cycle is Paolini's! Just realised I'd spelt it wrong for first chapter… oh well. Corrected, hopefully…**

**-Epilogue-**

…

Black… black… and more black. She wallowed in darkness so thick and smothering it threatened to swallow her up…

And then Arya woke. Only to be confronted by the merciless and somewhat aggravating pounding of her still-sore head.

She rubbed at her temples, a little disgruntled. _Maybe it was better to have just stayed unconscious._

But surprisingly enough, her throbbing headache granted her a rare moment of lucidity, and she decided to take advantage of that. Since she was already awake and alert, there was no further point in sleeping anymore, so she idly examined her surroundings. And felt a sharp pang of disquiet when she suddenly realised that _the white rose was no longer there. _

Arya had apparently been moved.

Yes, it was quite obvious now. Apart from the conspicuous absence of that… _thing_… the rough-hewn blocks of stone studding the walls and floor had acquired a pale pinkish tinge as well as a distinctly rough texture, coarse and abrasive where it rubbed against her skin. The door was also subtly different, in shape and in colour. But otherwise it was as if nothing had been changed.

Except everything _had_.

Trembling slightly, she gazed down at her interlaced fingers, so unhealthily pale, but stained with spots of long-dried blood. What did she feel about this? What _could_ she feel about this?

I feel… empty. No, that's not it. It's too complex. There are just too many emotions… I cannot make them all out.

The white rose had been her life, her existence, and the centre of her entire universe. It had been a ray of light piercing through her despair, and in truth, it had comforted her in her darkest hours; given her some semblance of hope when she'd desperately needed it.

And then she had been betrayed by it, until she had realised that it was actually her own mind betraying her.

Arya had both loved and hated it. It was such a simple, insignificant thing, and yet it had tortured her further, bringing agony beyond that of Durza's instruments.

Yes, there was pain. There was sadness, too, of a sort, and grief for what she had lost. There was regret, as the white rose had been the only thing of beauty in that hellhole. But most of all…

There was loneliness.

Would there ever be something, or someone, who wouldn't abandon her?

Faolin was dead. Her own mother had disowned her. Her people, and the Varden, were far away and unreachable. And in the end, even the white rose had forsaken her.

Arya was alone.

She sat there quietly, pondering this revelation. But such things had ceased to matter now. She would just be the prisoner; trapped, maimed and tortured for all of eternity, till everything had been squeezed from her, even life itself. And then she would be discarded. That was her fate.

_She was alone…_

…

Shouts, screams, and the deafening clashes of steel on steel reverberated through the walls, waking her a second time. Arya swayed, as a moment of confused grogginess transported her to a battle long past, then shook her head, recalling her present circumstances.

What was happening?

The commotion was real enough, but it didn't seem to have anything to do with her, so Arya was content to just lie there and listen. Until…

Something _roared_, and the sound was so loud, so out of place and so terrifyingly feral it made Arya jerk up and instinctively cover her ears.

A… dragon? No! It couldn't be Galbatorix! If it was, then… _All hope is lost._

But Galbatorix would hardly attack his own soldiers. So it must be someone else… another Dragon Rider?

_Could it be… that my egg hatched? But to whom?_ Arya hardly dared to hope. After all, hope had failed her again and again.

Then suddenly there were voices, and then footsteps; rapidly approaching footsteps hammering in the corridor, and the ear-splitting screech of a key in the lock. The door was thrown open.

And Arya stared.

For there was the boy. _The boy she had seen in her dreams. _

She could hardly have imagined that soft, slightly wavy brown hair and those even darker eyes. Those eyes held so much passion in them, so much sheer force and _life_. Arya was inexplicably drawn to them, vaguely recognising that pull as a hunger for what she couldn't have. She had lost the capacity for emotion long ago.

Right now, those eyes were filled with anger, shock, confusion and something a little like wonder as they beheld her lying on the floor. Then he turned away, yelling an answer to some question that Arya hadn't heard.

She caught one word, though. It was his name, and Arya felt a strange sense of _rightness _as she whispered it in her fading mind.

Eragon.

…**..**

**AN: And we all know what happens next. Eragon rescues her, falls for her, and dammit, Arya, just admit it and say you love him! **

**Epilogues are short and sweet, right? Sorry if it's too short… I probably screwed the chronology of the rescue due to the fact that I haven't read Eragon for such a long time. I seriously need to catch up on it. But I'm waiting anxiously for the fourth book… Paolini, write faster! **

**R & R, please! Since WR is finally finished, just tell me how I did overall and whether you liked or hated it. **

**I have plans for another Inheritance multi-chapter fic, so keep checking back, and look forward to it! **

**And has anyone noticed that Bromine and Selenium are placed next to one another on the Periodic Table? Paolini must've been doing his homework while writing… **

**Thank you to InkWeaverabc for the feedback and suggestions (I've changed it now), and to everyone else for sticking by me! **

**Goodbye! Bookwormtiff. **


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